At some point in my life I became extremely fussy about wanting to know where my food came from — particularly the meat — and the conditions under which all of it was produced. Vegetables, cereals, meat, dairy, the lot.

No more spring onions from farms employing exploited labour. Certainly nothing imported from countries without labour regulations or farming standards. No more indoor only “free range” chicken etc.

I’ve met the cows I eat and the hipsters who grow my cabbage. Both are very pleasant and show no signs of duress. All my suppliers have first names and Instagram accounts. There’s lots of evidence, alongside the produce itself, to cross reference their credentials. The market exists for more expensive, more carefully reared and more kindly cultivated produce of all kinds.

I trust only a handful of restaurants to get these details right and have had to accept that eating out is even more of a luxury than it used to be. None of the trusted restaurants are the local ghost kitchens, nor are they likely to be. Competing on price and efficient goes completely against the, ahem, grain.

I don’t want food to be cheap, fast, or efficient, and rarely — if ever — to be prepared by strangers I will never meet.